


My Arlathan

by LiaS0



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Arlathan, F/M, Headcanon, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Multi, Mystery, Original Character Death(s), Rebellion, Romance, Violence, character abuse, fen'harel angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-03-20 13:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3651726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiaS0/pseuds/LiaS0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was never one for politics, nor one for following the rules. When Fen’Harel comes across Lupa Lavellan, a slave on the run from her masters, he is moved by her rebellious nature and allows her to go free. But time ever turns onward, and as a once great nation slowly collapses around itself, Fen’Harel must choose between the woman he loves, and the world he would die for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> There is going to be a lot of speculation and imagination in this work, everyone. Since most of our information about Arlathan and the time before is…now supposedly false, there isn’t a WHOLE lot to go on. That being said, I will try to create a believable setting for the story while still maintaining some mystery and some creative license.

Prologue:

After: 

One cannot look upon time like a race, a sentence of death, or an end. Rather, when one looks upon time, they look upon creation, for we as beings that are far beyond animals are the ones that created time, and created constraints within it. We told ourselves it was time to sleep. We told ourselves it was time to eat. We told ourselves that we were running out of time, or that we needed more time. We are the reason that time is a jailer, for first we made him and then gave him the key.

I am from the time before time, a time when discussions lasted years and their aftermath far longer still. We did not consider if we took too much time or gave too little. We were lost in our long, enduring years, partaking of every moment and knowing that there was ever more. I am from a time when power spanned beyond thought, when the smallest of breaths could ripple waves to topple empires. I am from a time when we did not think of other species, races, people; we were the elvhenan, and we were grand. Our towers that lived in the skies did not reach down to those below.

But that was long ago. Now, the foundations of our towers of crystal and gold are dust beneath the ashes of my people. Now, the language that once flowed from lips of wisdom is dead, uttered between the languages of mortals as a stilted, unfamiliar thing. Now, our people that were once strong and commanding bow their heads to those that were once inferior to our years and our magic. Now, our people live in shacks in the decrepit parts of cities that are overrun with the greedy and the ignorant. Now, those that do not bow to man run from man, ever traveling and ever foolish in their presumptions of what their ancestors once were.

They are our people no longer.

And it is entirely my fault.


	2. Something Wicked This Way Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen'Harel stumbles across a slave in the dead of night, her skin flushed and her eyes wide in frenzy. What happens after shifts and changes his entire world within the mere blink of an eye.

Chapter 1:

_"Elgar’nan heard of what you did." He lounged on his throne, a small smirk on his lips._

_"I did not do it in order to have it remain a secret." He replied, and he motioned for his cup to be filled. A slave rushed over and poured it, head bowed and hands shaking._

_"You do realize that one day he will probably kill you?" Fen’Harel blinked, tilted his head, and sniffed the air. As the slave threw the pitcher of wine and drew a knife, he waved his hand and uttered a small spell, the man freezing instantly, his arm mid-air, the blade glinting beneath the sheen of ice._

_"Well, he will have to do better than this. Perhaps next time, he will try it himself." He grinned and made a fist, slamming it down onto the arm of the throne. The man before them shattered, the pieces disappearing before they could touch the floor._

When Fen’Harel stepped from his temple, he knew that he was not alone. His skin tingled, and he smelled something foul in the air –fear. He knew the scent well. His steps in the forest caused the stench of it to linger from every living thing, the smell of it oozing from the pores of those that knew his name. That is what it was to be powerful, to be one of the worshipped among his people. And yet, as he looked about the small glen, he knew that it was not fear of him. He tasted the air, flexed his hands. There was a disturbance in the forest, a blanket that muffled everything around him and left the animals silent and in hiding.

Andruil must have been hunting, then.

The forest often fell silent while she stepped onto the earth to hunt whatever prey she had in mind. Animals, elves…nothing was beyond her grasp if she so chose. A twig snapped, and his head jerked in that direction. An elf. Female, in fact. And though he was not alone, she was most certainly not aware of him the way that he was of her. He looked towards the source of her energy and saw her amongst the trees, pressed against the trunk of an elm, gasping silently for breath. Curious. There were not many elves that dared to cross his path, dared to enter into territories where his temples lay. He was the Dread Wolf, walker among The Forgotten Ones as well as his own brothers and sisters of the pantheon. A rebel, a wildcard, as it was whispered around the hearthfires. Unless they came to worship or to pray to him, his temples were empty.

He knew that it wasn’t his concern, most likely an escaped slave or a criminal, but interest got the better of him. Almost leisurely, he walked along the path that a small animal had made, and he moved through the trees, inhaling the elf’s scent with a slow, even breath. Fear, definitely fear. But beneath that, hidden amongst the adrenaline, there was excitement and anger. Even more curious.

He walked around the tree slowly, taking his time even though he could sense her fear spiking and careening out of control. Ah. Whatever she was doing, she wouldn’t get away with it like that. If Andruil was indeed hunting, she’d be able to taste the emotions from a mile away. He bit back a grin as he walked around the tree to see for himself who this intruder on his lands was. There was nothing better than a good mystery, after all. At the sound of a branch brushing against his robes, she jerked from her hiding place and turned towards him frantically, clapping a hand over her own mouth as she let out a startled scream at the sight of him.

She was a skinny, starved little thing, all bones and angles. Her clothes were in tatters, hanging off of narrow shoulders and a thin frame that a breeze could blow away. Her bright green eyes were far too large above her sunken cheeks, and her thick black hair had seen better days, piled on top of her head in a rat’s nest. The biggest indication of her status, though, was the unmistakable sign of her slavery –the slave marks of the goddess Andruil printed onto her cheeks.

“A runaway,” he said, and he felt his lips curl up in delight. Oh, the fun that this would make.

“Fen’Harel…” She breathed, and although she looked like a wisp of a thing, her voice was low and even. She pressed herself against the trunk, her wild eyes wide. Ah, now there was fear of him in her scent, too.

“A runaway from Andruil, even. Is that why the forest is hushed? She is on the hunt?” He asked, folding his arms over his chest.

“How did you…” Her voice trailed off as she reached up and touched the markings on her face lightly, fingers trembling. He was intrigued to see her aura shift to a lurid red of anger as she caressed her cheek, and she looked up at him, eyes flashing.

“Yes.”

“Yes, and so you run. But slaves should not run from their masters. So your master prayed to his goddess and begged her to act, to bring you to your knees for your sin.”

“I have no master.” She snapped, her hand dropping from her cheek. “I am the ruler of my own destiny.” There was something there, something that curled and snapped and made him want to lick his lips in glee. Perhaps it was the way that even staring down death, knees knocking together, she sounded so utterly sure. Or perhaps it was the idea of utter rebellion that made the wolf inside of him unfurl and sniff the air? Unable to stop himself, he reached forward and drew a finger slowly down one of the marks.

“These…say otherwise.” She jerked away from his touch and pressed herself back against the trunk of the tree, repulsed.

"It means nothing when they were not put there willingly."

"Slavery is not something that someone enters willingly." He taunted.

“Either kill me or let me go. I don’t have time.” Fen’Harel lifted his head and breathed in deeply as the wind whispered danger to him. He glanced back at the girl and smiled, his smile that of teeth and a curling of the lip that was more of a snarl than true happiness.

“An interesting notion, time. For there is all of it for us to grab, and yet you resign yourself to these specific seconds. But you are correct. Andruil comes, and she will not be merciful.” The girl shifted, poised to flee. Fen’Harel saw the likeness of prey in her there, frozen with fear.

“And will you also show no mercy?” She asked, teeth bared. He blinked, and instead of prey he saw a predator, crouched to spring. Amused, he looked to where Andruil would stalk through the trees, and he shrugged carelessly.

“Go, little slave girl. If you are fast, she will not find you.” She didn’t have to be told twice. Fen’Harel heard the gasp of surprise from her, and then the rustling of leaves as she sprinted away, trying not to crash through the underbrush as she did so. If she was fast, she would get away. And the seeds of rebellion would spread, as they should. He grinned to himself at the thought, at the chaos that could reign if they were lucky.

He was still grinning as Andruil stepped through the mighty trees, her armor of the void somber in the moonlight. She was always beautiful to him the way that darkness was beautiful –mysterious and dangerous. Most of her days were spent in the Void, hunting after the Forgotten Ones, and only on rare occasion did she step out to see the others. The longer she was gone, the more that Fen’Harel could see glints of madness that flitted in her eyes. The Void was a dangerous place, and even having knowledge of it did not protect one from it.

“I smelled you.” He said, and Andruil’s lip curled.

“You also smelled the slave girl. Where is she?” Her hand flexed and gripped the bow that she always carried with herself, a bow whose mark was never missed.

“I did indeed smell her.” He tilted his head, considering telling the truth. But when he blinked, he could see the girl, shaking yet resilient, fatigued yet enduring. A rebellious glint in her eye that said that she would die trying. He shrugged nonchalantly. “She went south, moving along with the water to hide her tracks.”

“You’re lying.” Andruil spat.

“Am I?”

“Do not dance circles with me, Fen’Harel. I know you speak more lies than truth. Tell me where she is. I will not play games.” Her hand flexed again, and he wondered just how much the madness had touched her mind. It was no secret that Mythal worried after her actions and the consequences that they would bring.

“She must be important to pull you from your own hunt through the Void. Who is she?” Andruil ground her teeth in annoyance.

“A nobleman prayed in my temple and offered a sacrifice if I found her. I do not ignore the devout the way that you do.”

“I do not ignore the devout at all; I merely question their intelligence.”

“Where is she, Fen’Harel!” She stepped closer, and the bow glowed with a dark, sinister fire. “I will not ask again!”

“…South. Along the river to hide her tracks.” He was pleased to see her lip ripple with a snarl, pleased to see her jerk away from him, furious but not stupid. She would not goad him into violence.

“Your tricks will not work on me. I’ve seen many fooled by them before.” Before he could say anything else, she turned north and melted back into the shadows, her footsteps mere whispers on the ground. Her voice flitted back to him eerily in the darkness. “When I find her, I will bring you her carcass.”

Fen’Harel grinned, and he leaned against the tree trunk for quite some time. Many called him a trickster, a wicked soul. Mythal affectionately called him her Dread Wolf, a hunter of the shadows. But plying his trade and seeing it bare fruit so easily…that is what truly gave him pleasure. For he had not lied when he said that she went south, following the river. But Andruil didn’t know that.

And by the time that she found out that she’d been tricked, the little slave girl would be long gone.


	3. Mythal

**Chapter 2** :

_There was crying, first. Then screams of rage, of fury. And then there was bloodshed._

_Fen’Harel lifted his nose to the air and tasted the sharp, bitter scent of grief and agony as the fighting began, swords clashing and arrows flying. It would always continue, an endless cycle, the spirits reenacting the war. So consumed in the emotions of those days were they that it was their sustenance, their oxygen and their lifeblood. He walked along the ridge of the hill, gaining power as well, feeling the energy running through his veins. This was his power. This was his anarchy, his people that fought with such fervor._

_Though they wore no marks of his, no banner with his symbol, their hearts beat with his name, begged his blessing, killed so that they would live as he did. It was invigorating to see so many fighting and dying, so many that would rather lose their life than live under the name of another. He sat down, watching the champions of the battle riding out, their swords flashing. An oppressed people could only remain under the boot of another for so long before they grew weary of it. As the spirits mimicked the energy and the vigor of that day, he couldn’t help but let out a loud, joyous howl that matched the pitch of a battle horn. It would be the start of many battles to come, many lives that would rise and fall, all for the sake of one thing:_

_Freedom._

When Fen’Harel woke from the fade, he could smell the slave girl in the temple.

He stretched and arched his back, sliding from the boughs of a tree that he sometimes slept in, and he inhaled deeply, bemused. The fear that’d cloaked her the night before was gone, a smell that now merely simmered beneath eagerness. He paused; tilted his head. Eagerness? Curious. By now, he’d have thought that she would be leagues from the jungle, desperate to blend in and somehow hide. But how was one to hide when their face clearly showed the brand that they ran from? That must be it, then. She was hiding.

But when he walked down the steps and through doors of stone carved by elves now long since lost in uthenera, he did not see her curled up and hiding. No, as he walked down another set of stairs and turned a corner, he beheld her at the main alter, lighting incense. Incense. He didn’t recall the temple holding incense, not for many years at least. And yet, she lit it and set it in a burner, kneeling before a pool of water and bowing to it as she murmured a prayer. Softly, a hum in the back of his head, he heard:

_"I kneel here, Fen’Harel, and offer my thanks. I live now because of you."_ He shook his head, dispelling the disembodied voice. He was used to hearing such random snatches of prayers from people who gave thanks, but it had been quite some time that he’d heard one so clearly. Normally, he drowned them out.

"It is curious that one would run south for such a time before doubling back and coming here instead. It is not running away if you go back to where you ran from." He spoke, and she jerked out of her kneeling position, scrambling to her feet. In the daylight that streamed past the columns and branches of sweeping trees, she looked even more starved and hollow than before. He blatantly stared at her collarbone that jutted out dangerously and wondered how she’d even managed to run at all, let alone stand up so quickly.

"Fen’Harel." She said quietly. Before he could agree that that was indeed his name, she sunk to her knees and bowed, forehead pressed to the floor of the temple.

"Interesting." He murmured. It’d been some time since he had seen such devotion in physical form. Every inch of her body language was submission. It rubbed him wrong, made his skin itch. "But unnecessary. You may get up." She lifted her head from the ground, but did not stand.

"Fen’Harel, I came here to give my thanks."

"I heard."

"And to beg you for aid."

"I’m not a champion of the poor and needy. Bother someone else." He shook his head sharply.

"But you are a champion of those that would break the shackles on their wrists. You are the god that bends rules and still keeps favor with your brothers and sisters." His lip curled at that.

"I am not a savior. Nor do I have a desire to be." Brothers and sisters, indeed. Harpies and fools that shouted and stomped and shook their fists, sparks flying. He turned away from her and walked slowly up another set of steps to his throne, carelessly tossing himself into it. If she was going to try and argue with him, he was going to make himself comfortable.

"Then why did you allow me to escape?" She followed him, standing before his throne like she had a right to be there, her bony fingers settling on her hips, the knuckles standing out. He quirked an eyebrow, idly scratching an itch on his head.

"I can respect someone that causes waves. There is a certain sort of…intrigue to rebellion. Which I gave you. So you should be on your way."

"You and I both know that with these marks on my face, I’m not free. No matter where I go, sooner or later I’m going to be picked up and put to death for desertion of my master."

"That does not bode well for you." She bared her teeth then, and he was struck by the wolfish snarl that tore from her throat as she glowered.

"I will not be a slave for the rest of my life.”

"I agree completely. You have a poor disposition for it." She started to take a step, stopped. He watched with a wicked sort of fascination as she seemed to be internally waging a war, emotions playing across her face before she finally threw her hands up in the air, exasperation.

"Please, help me! I would do anything to be free of this!” He moved then, towering over her as he grabbed her chin and forced her to look up, staring down at her with a terrible sort of smile.

"Anything?" He asked quietly, dangerously. "Be careful what you wish for. People have lost more when saying less." He slid his thumb over her cheek, felt the thin and damaged skin beneath his fingers. She held still and stared up at him, meeting his eyes with a defiance that would have normally made him smile. Her body may have been frail, but her gaze was sharp and pointed.

"I would…do almost anything.But if I remain like this, I will be either killed by Andruil or I will be forced into worse conditions than before."

"Death would be merciful." He replied, struck by how even now, her voice was even, devoid of shaking or fear. Even when standing before the Dread Wolf, she did not falter. She must have been desperate indeed to come to him. He couldn’t disagree with that notion. He had seen the conditions that the lower castes were subjected to: the beatings, the markings, the starvation. Though he paid little mind to them, he knew of them.

"I do not want death. I want to live!"

"You are alive right now, are you not?"

"No. I’m surviving. There is a difference between living and surviving. I want to live." Those words gave him pause. They rang with a passion, with something far stronger than simple need or want. He inhaled, and he was pleased to smell no fear from her. Instead, there was that spark, a tendril of fight that kindled a fierce dedication. Fen’Harel nodded slowly, and after a moment of thought, he released her.

"...You will stay, then. As long as you remain in my temples, you cannot be touched by anyone. Do as you will, but do not leave." Her eyes widened hardly believing that he’d agreed. And then, with a sudden realization, they narrowed.

"That…that is all you will do?" He threw his hands up and laughed, stepping away.

"Is that not enough? Andruil cannot touch you here, and neither can her followers."

"But I can’t leave! I’m a prisoner!"

"Make what you will of it. If you would rather brave what lies beyond my walls, then by all means…you may leave whenever you would like." She stared at him, mouth agape, but he was already turning away and walking towards the eluvian he kept towards the back of the temple.

"That isn’t freedom!"

"I never promised you that." With a wave of his hand, he stepped through the rippling barrier and into the crossroads, locking it behind himself before she could reply or -even worse- follow him. He walked among the different locations of the crossroads, studying each eluvian lazily before he stepped in front of one and grazed his hand over it, feeling the power rippling off of it. Once he felt that there was no danger in the energy, he stepped through and walked into one of Mythal’s temples, looking around for her. Perhaps she would share a laugh with him, or have some insight.

He found her by a small pool of water, whispers tingling the edges of his mind as he looked at it. Her hands, smooth and gentle, lay folded in her lap, and as he walked closer and sat down beside her, she reached out and gently patted his knee.

"I knew that you would come." Her sweet, soothing tone was a balm, and he set his hand over hers gently.

"There is a girl in one of my temples that wears Andruil’s brand." Her hand tensed beneath his, and he lightly squeezed it so that she wouldn’t remove it.

"That would explain why she went to Elgar’nan this morning and demanded your head." She replied dryly.

"She did not appreciate my advice."

"I do not think that many appreciate your advice, Dread Wolf." She chuckled lightly and stood up, her robes flowing around her like a waterfall.

"Do you think it wise to allow her to stay, knowing what it could bring?" Fen’Harel looked to the pool that seemed to ripple but in truth lay still, and he frowned.

"I do not fear what is to come."

"Foolhardy boy." She chided lightly. "You are too arrogant if you think that there will not be repercussions."

"I know there will be repercussions. I just do not fear them."

"What would you do with her? You keep priests no longer. There are no servants, no acolytes…you do not heed the prayers that come your way, when they do. What is one girl?" She walked along the edge of the pool and surveyed him, equal parts kind and cruel. He frowned, tilted his head.

What was one girl? One girl that would probably die before the day was out, either from stubbornly trying to leave, or from starvation. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, trying to still the wolf that paced inside of him restlessly.

"She is…" He recalled the night before, the wetness of the jungle air and the way that it tasted on his tongue. "Predator and prey. Weak and strong. Humble, yet…rebellious. She looked at me and did not flinch away, Mythal. I am intrigued."

"A passing fancy is not worth the trouble."

"It is when such a soul would simply be collected as a trophy for Andruil. She has been to the Void again. Who knows what madness she has brought back?" That gave Mythal pause, and Fen’Harel grinned. They could wonder and debate all that they wished about this slave, but the truth was far beyond that. Andruil, hunter of the Void. Andruil, woman of madness and sacrifice. He watched a range of emotions cross her face before she settled on a neutral expression.

"We will discuss that when the next meeting is held. But for now, you must ask yourself if you are truly prepared to face the wrath of Elgar’nan and Andruil for one soul. You may not fear them, but you should at least be prepared." The idea of being pushed into a corner, confronted on two sides made his hackles rise. He bared his teeth, shifted where he sat.

"Souls such as this one do not belong to Andruil." He said, trying to keep his voice light. "There is a rebellious look that marks her as one of mine." Mythal slowly walked the edge of the pool, and as she passed behind him she gently let her fingers slide along his shoulder.

"Then I hope for your sake that your tongue is faster than their blades when we meet."


	4. The Circle

Chapter 3:

_She was beautiful in the way that a rose was beautiful –distracting, and full ofthorns that were difficult to see. When he reached to touch her cheek, she snapped and drew blood. He smiled and tilted his head. “_

_Do you think that resisting will make you stronger?” “_

_I know that resisting will keep me alive. If I stop, I might as well be dead.” “_

_There is a certain sort of beauty to resistance.” “_

_I suppose if you didn’t feel that way, then you wouldn’t be the Dread Wolf.”_

The pantheon met in a circular room, the walls smooth and painted in the boldest of colors, splashes of hues that far surpassed the physical eye to see without magic. One of June’s priests had been blessed by June for his love and devotion, and had once walked into the room with the finest of paints in order to best display the power of the gods. He had slaved over it for decades before finishing, and when they had once more stepped into the room, it felt like stepping into another world entirely. It had been dubbed the Gateway to the Heavens, and so it was.

Fen’Harel strode into the room with a sort of confidence that borderlined on utter arrogance. When he walked in, the others grew silent to watch him stride towards his throne and slump into it, legs over one arm and head resting on the other. Mythal watched him from her throne, legs crossed delicately, a knowing smile on her lips.

“Fashionably late, are you?” Andruil said, standing beside the throne of her sister. Sylaise, the calmer of the two, watched him with curious eyes, a small smile flickering about her mouth. However long they’d been talking about him, he couldn’t be sure. But based on the way that the rest of the pantheon was exchanging glances, he knew that it had to have been for quite some time.

“I had a few things to do, first.” He replied, getting comfortable. Andruil wasn’t his concern. No, his concern was Elgar’nan, who sat on his throne, darkness in his eyes. Fen’Harel dipped his head in a show of respect, although the angle of it as he lounged on the throne clearly belied the action.

“Andruil came to me and spoke of a slave that you harbor.” Elgar’nan rumbled, the normal glower on his face darker. The others quieted, glancing between the two of them with an eager sort of wariness. Fen’Harel hated it, the prickling little eyes that all but gleamed at the slightest hint of bad blood. He pretended to ponder their leader’s words, pretended that it was something that he cared to hear. Beside Elgar’nan, Mythal watched with heavy eyes, her smile dropping.

“I harbor no one. A girl came to one of my temples and gave thanks. In my name she ran, and she supposes that I aided in her escape.”

“You did aid in her escape!” Andruil snapped.

“I did no such thing. I told you that she ran south. It was your mistake in thinking that she ran north.” He drawled, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Falon’Din smirking. The fool loved to see them fighting.

“You knew that I wouldn’t believe you!”

“And how is that my fault exactly? Was I to waste my time convincing you of my honesty?”

“Enough!” Elgar’nan shouted, and he slammed his fist down. _Such melodrama_ , Fen’Harel thought to himself. Not even five minutes into the meeting and everyone was shouting. He sighed, ran his hand through his hair, tousling it.

“You knew that she would not believe you.” Elgar’nan said heavily, his dark eyes boring into Fen’Harel. He pretended that it didn’t make him nervous, how the vengeful god always looked so close to murder.

“What would you have suggested I do, father?” The last word tasted like dung, but he said it as sweet as honey. There was a ripple of shock from the others, and then silence. Elgar’nan clenched his jaw.

“I find fault in Andruil, for being baited with your foolishness. And I find fault in you for causing such disorder. You will return the slave to her.”

“I will do no such thing.” Andruil let out a hiss, striding to the center of the circle, facing Elgar’nan.

“Don’t you see? He will not cooperate with us, no matter what we do!”

“What have you done, other than scream and shout like a child?” Fen’Harel interjected with a smirk. Falon’Din nodded in agreement, his brother mimicking the movement without even having to think about it.

“Elgar’nan said that you will-“

“He said return, as though I have taken. I took no slave.” Fen’Harel stood, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he stared at Andruil, his blood racing. “But if you wish to intrude on my temple and take someone that finds peace among my things, then by all means. Start a war. Come to a place that does not welcome you.”

“You cannot win a war, Fen’Harel. You have no men beneath you, no one that worships and fights in your name.” She seethed. In the time that it took her to blink, he stepped up to her, looked down at her with his lips curling over teeth that gleamed.

“Do I truly not?” He whispered, and in the stillness of the room, he knew that everyone was listening to their words. It was a deadly dance, and it excited him more than he cared to admit. “One of your own slaves ran from you, sought shelter among my stones and my marble. Do you not think that there are others that whisper my name in prayer, wearing your brands? Do you not think that there are those that bow their head and kneel before their masters, all the while they worship me in the silence of the night? I do not parade my army for all to see because I do not have to. They wait in the shadows, and their shackles remind them of who they would serve, if given the right moment.”

No one spoke, and as the hall echoed with his words, he stared at her and waited for her move. Her eyes flashed, crackled. He knew she longed to reach for her bow, to bring an end to him. And yet, there was a hesitance in her mannerisms, a hesitance that told him that he had won. Andruil was powerful, but in her power there was caution. Was Fen’Harel stronger than she was? She couldn’t be certain. And that uncertainty prevented her from trying, just in case. If she was wrong, then she was dead.

“I think…that is enough.” Mythal spoke suddenly, and Fen’Harel glanced at her, head tilted. She stood up from her chair and looked at them all, her gaze resting on Elgar’nan in the end.

“Mythal.” Elgar’nan’s voice softened, though it was barely discernable. Fen’Harel glanced between the two of them, folding his arms across his chest. Beside him, Andruil did the same.

“There is more than enough pride in this circle to drown us all. Andruil, is this slave necessary? Must you have her to sate your bloodlust?”

“Mythal, I-“

“Fen’Harel, must you goad and taunt her when you know this is something she feels strongly about?” Mythal looked between the two of them, clearly disappointed.

“I only feel that-“

“Enough.” Her voice sharpened, and she levelled them with a steely gaze. “The slave will stay in the temple. She has sought sanctuary, and it cannot be denied.”

“Mythal!” Andruil’s voice rose and cut off on a sharp note. Mythal continued speaking.

“However; if the slave leaves the temple that she found sanctuary in, then she is free for you to claim your trophy. Fen’Harel will not stop you.” Mythal looked at him, and he did not break eye contact, though he knew it would have been wiser to. He felt the eyes of every god in the room on him, but instead of bowing politely, he felt his spine stiffen and his lips curl.

“That is reasonable.” He replied.

“He will not stop me?” Andruil asked suspiciously.

“Will you?” Mythal stared at Fen’Harel, and he tilted his head, considering. In all truth and fairness, he could very well stop her. He knew it, and underneath the bluster and the fury, Andruil knew it, too.

“I will not stop her, if the slave leaves the sanctuary that she sought.” He said, and behind him he heard June grunt in approval. He was a tinkerer, of little interest in the affairs of foolish squabbles and pettiness. _If only we could all be as June,_ he thought to himself sarcastically.

“This pleases you, Elgar’nan?” Mythal looked to him, her voice of wisdom and pragmatism light despite the dangerous situation. Elgar’nan nodded slowly.

“It is fair. As you always are.” He grunted.

“Then it is settled.” Mythal’s tone allowed for no argument. “We will not hear more of this.”

And as Andruil and Fen’Harel both took their seats once more, they did not speak of it for the rest of the meeting. Fen’Harel slouched on his throne of crystal, and as he pretended to take interest in the next round of squabbling and arguing, he could feel Andruil’s gaze on him. Though they would not speak of it, he knew that it was far from over.

He relished in the thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions? Comments? Concerns? Leave it in a comment!


	5. Slave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was reading over this, I noticed that I forgot a chapter that I meant to move over. This is the official chapter 4, and I am adjusting the others accordingly. I'm sorry! That would explain the random plot jump that some of you may have noticed.

Chapter 4:

He did not return to the girl for some time. He had several temples, several places that he could rest. And if he was not in one of his temples, he was in one of the grand halls, hands greedily turning the pages of tomes written by the blood of those from before. The main matter of it was simply to avoid everyone around him. He had work to do. And one could not plan if one was distracted. For the moment, Andruil was backed into a corner, and Elgar’nan was appeased by the wisdom of Mythal. It wasn’t always that he could be cowed, but she had a certain sort of touch over him that made things far easier for Fen’Harel.

He felt it though, when she prayed. It was a tingling in the back of his mind, a spell from centuries ago that the nine of them had done in secret, their greed as encompassing as their power.  _For Gods should hear the prayers of their people_ , Elgar’nan had said, smug and proud. Though he had long since disbanded his worshippers and walked his path alone, Fen’Harel had never gotten around to reversing the spell. And sometimes, when all was quiet, he could hear the prayers of those that whispered his name in reverence. Reverence. The idea was laughable.

It was one particular afternoon, as he sat in his study, that he heard her prayer more clearly than normal. His hands were held over an orb, the manner of it intricate and powerful as it hummed with electric energy. As he channeled his power into the foci, he was startled from his concentration when he heard, as clearly as one heard another pressed against their ear:

_I thank you for your hospitality, and I’m sorry for breaking your vase._

His hand jerked back; the spell backfired. With a shout of surprise, he leapt away from the desk and barely managed to throw up a shield before a wall of energy slammed against it, nearly singeing his hair in the process. He let out a growl of annoyance as the power slowly dissipated, lowering the shield and stalking to the orb, picking it up tenderly and tucking it into his robes.

The girl had interrupted his work.

He looked about the room, his books and papers meticulously stacked upon shelves of petrified wood. A gift from June, whose craftsmen had all but sung the wood from the stone. Relieved to see that none of his texts had been incinerated, he flipped his hair from his face and walked out of the study, stalking to the eluvian that would lead to the correct temple. Whatever it was that she had done…he sighed. A moment of impulse on his end, a face in the darkness that’d spoken of rebellion and treason. He walked through the eluvian and stepped into the temple, not sure exactly what he would say, but entirely certain that  _something_ had to be said. Did she not know that her prayers were not necessary? He would not kick her out. He would not rescind his mercy, although now that he had thrown himself back into his work, he wasn’t entirely sure why he had done it in the first place.

He was distracted from his thoughts at the scent of something sharp and sweet that assaulted him as he locked the eluvian behind him, his gesture sharp. It didn’t smell like incense. No, if anything…it smelled like food? He strode down the halls and hurried down the steps, following the smell until it led him into a far corner of the temple, tucked out of the elements and shielded from view by enormous pillars. To his utter shock and surprise, the girl was crouched beside a fire, an animal skewered on a stick that she slowly turned, a small wooden bowl of what appeared to be berries perched on a rock beside her. She was still alive? And…cooking?

“You broke my vase?” He said, although such things were little consequence to him. It seemed a little more appropriate than asking her why she was cooking what seemed to be a skinned nug over the fire. She let out a quiet curse and jumped up, dropping the stick into the fire. When she saw her meal set ablaze, she let out another curse and grabbed it out of the fire, blowing roughly to stop the flames from searing the meat too badly. If the flames burned her fingers, he couldn’t tell. She didn’t seem to mind the heat, which begged the question what exactly her position as a slave had been before she had run away.

“Fen’Harel!” She exclaimed, and she quickly bowed at the waist, eyes averted.

“Is that a curse, or is it an acknowledgment of who I am?” He asked. She looked up, but upon meeting his gaze she looked away quickly, setting the cooked meat down and wiping her hand on her robes. Robes? He studied her, and it took him a moment to realize that she wasn’t wearing the tattered clothing from before. Robes, rich in fiber and color cloaked her frail frame, the threading outlining the image of him as a wolf. It was a popular image, one that the priests had taken and made bolder, stronger, fiercer. He looked down at her feet, and saw the soft, supple leather slippers that the acolytes had once worn.

“I…my clothing was falling apart.” She explained, but he wasn’t entirely listening. He blinked, and he could see them, fools with their brilliantly colored robes, eyes downcast as he arrogantly stalked past them to a throne of diamond and pearl. He blinked again, and this scrap of a girl waited with bated breath, afraid that she had done wrong. He let out out an irritated grunt.

“You should change. There are other pieces that are far less damning to wear.” She nodded, readily agreeing. Of course. Her savior, her god that appeared when she needed him the most. His lip twitched, and he turned away, walking along the path of stones that gleamed in the –

…that gleamed. Period.

He blinked, and suddenly he realized that his overgrown –wild and beautiful, yes, but still overgrown –temple had been cleaned from top to bottom, the pillars polished, the floors scrubbed of lichen and moss. Weeds that’d slipped in among the bushes and flowers were gone, and the dirt and been smoothed and raked over, small sprouts poking through the dark brown earth. Rich soil, he’d been told. Soil that you could sing the flowers out of, if your voice was beautiful enough. The calcium that had built up around the edge of the fountain and pool of water had been scrubbed clean, the marble and stone devoid of growth and residue. Slowly, he turned back to her and stared at hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, and he wasn’t sure what to say for a moment. All that he could think was that there was no way she had done it alone. And yet, who else would have helped? Who else  _could_ have helped?

“I thought that if I was going to spend an eternity here, then it might as well look nice.” She said when he didn’t make any comment. She shifted her weight, and when he still said nothing she moved past him and headed across the path to a small room, a room where many an elf had changed from their worldly clothing into robes of worship and dedication. He followed her, more out of curiosity than out of any desire to see what she chose to change into. This room had also been cleaned, the dust and dirt of time swept away, the sturdy wood gleaming under polish that he didn’t know the temple held. The girl walked to a trunk and opened it, rummaging through robes and breeches before she unearthed a pair of fitted trousers and a thick, long tunic made of halla fur.

“Is this alright?” She asked, and he nodded. It was something from before his worshippers donned clothing of his choice, from a time of simplicity. It sparked no memory in him. Without waiting for him to leave, she yanked the robes up over her head and set them on the trunk, quickly dressing herself. In the starkness of nothing but her smallclothes, he could see every rib, every knob of her spine pressing against her skin. And littered across her body, bruises in multiple colors created a patchwork of gruesome abuse. He didn’t look away, though the sight tugged at something within him. It was common to see slaves with bruises and brands. His only concern was that these looked new.

She turned back to him, and he could see that she was unashamed of her marks. If anything, he could taste a stubborn sort of anger as she glanced up at his eyes and then looked away. She busied herself with folding the robe and putting it away, and he could see that she’d folded all of the robes neatly, tucked into the trunk like they were important.

“…I broke your vase on accident. I used a ladder, and as I was climbing down it slipped off of the pillar. I knocked it over.”

“This temple has not been cleaned in quite some time.” She wrinkled her nose.

“I know. I could tell. Why would you come to a place that is so…” Her voice trailed off, and she seemed to remember just who she was speaking to. She shifted from one foot to the other, anxious. “If it was a special vase, I could try to find a way to make one similar.”

“I did not come because you broke my vase. I came to tell you to stop praying to me. It is distracting and irritating.” He didn’t stay to process the look of shock on her face. He turned and walked out of the room, past the tantalizing scent of the sweet and spicy food, heading back towards the eluvian. How had he not noticed the stark difference in the abandoned temple? Everything gleamed. It was as though she had used magic, though he could sense no talent from her. Perhaps she simply had enough time on her hands? As a freed slave with little to occupy her time, it seemed fitting that she would resort to cleaning.

“You can’t tell me to stop praying!” Her footsteps were light and hurried as she scrambled to follow him.

“I certainly can.”

“Mine aren’t the only prayers, Fen’Harel! Surely you hear the others that say your name?” He felt the slight tug on his robes as she grabbed the edge, and he flicked it out of her grip, irritated.

“I can easily ignore theirs when they are not done in the temple. In the temple, yours is amplified.”

“All the more reason to pray!” He saw the eluvian, the curled and intricate edges polished to the point of glistening like frozen water. He headed to it, but as he reached it, she threw herself in front of him, arms thrown out to block him from leaving. He sniffed the air, smelled her anger –delightful.

“Move, girl.”

“I have a name!” She snapped. At her tone, he felt his hackles rise, but he forced himself to keep calm, to analyze her anger rather than feed off of it.

“I care nothing for your name.”

“You should! Fen’Harel, you should! Do you not hear your people crying out to you? Do you not hear them in their hour of need?” Her voice rose, crested over a wave of emotion and crashed around them. To his surprise, she was shaking, the emotion of it a tremor in her shoulders. He did not taste fear though. There was anger. Nothing but anger, and a sadness so deep that it resonated within him.

“Calm yourself.” He said sternly, though his voice lacked the normal power behind it.

“I cannot! I have been here for a month, Fen’Harel, a  _month_. And in that time I have prayed to you, I have made offerings to you, and I have cleaned your place of worship. And you come here to me today not to scold me for breaking your vase, not to tell me that you appreciate the worship, but to tell me to  _stop_  worshipping you?” Her nostrils flared, and she jutted her chin out. “Your name is the one that is uttered in hushed tones after the slaves are beaten. Your name is whispered, reverently, as warriors die under a banner of a god that wastes their life. Your name is the one cried as women hide their children and send them down the river in bassinets to be found by someone of a higher caste. And now I see you, and this is what you are? You don’t even care to hear their cries?”

Had it been a month? He hadn’t realized so much time had passed. Without any need or structure, the time has slid through his fingers, senseless and wasted. He felt the foci in his robes, the heavy metal suddenly reassuring. Not entirely wasted, rather.

“Clearly,” he replied, “I do not care. Otherwise, my temples would be full.”

“Clearly!” She exclaimed, and her arms fell to her sides, exhausted. Her voice shook. “Clearly. I don’t know what I expected, coming here to you…but this was not it.”

“I am not quite sure what you expected, either. You come into the place of a god and expect that he will care after you?”

“You are not a god.” She spat. “Gods care about their people, they bless them and aid them. I don’t know what you are, but…a god is not it.”

Fen’Harel grinned. His skin tingled; his heart roughly beat against his chest.  _If only you knew_ , he thought to himself,  _if only you knew_. 

She seemed to realize just what she had said. Her own mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. She tried to step back, but the locked eluvian barred her from escaping. Her back pressed against it, and she stared up at him with brilliantly emerald eyes that gleamed in what was now unmistakably fear.

“I…” She looked to his mouth that was curled up in glee, and her voice escaped her. He could taste it, her fear, her anger at her own stupidity. The air was ripe with it. 

“An interesting thought. But allow me to let you in on something illuminating, little girl. None of the gods care about anything more than themselves. Their followers mean nothing to them. To us.” She seemed to be in shock, and he took that as his opportunity. He grabbed her by her thin, frail shoulders and he moved her to the side, not quite violent but not quite kind, either. She stumbled and stood to the side of the eluvian, and her arms slowly wrapped around herself. 

“How could you say that?” She whispered. With a wave of his hand, Fen'Harel unlocked the eluvian and slid his fingers along it,  his amusement threatening to overcome him.

“Because who would know better than I?” He started to step through, then paused and looked at her, his smile dropping from his face as he took in her stunned, horrified expression. “Stop praying to me. In that aspect, I am perfectly serious.”

He walked through the eluvian without another word.


	6. Dirthamen

Chapter 5:

_“Is it easy, learning magic?"_

_"It is as easy as breathing. We have a unique power, each one of us. While one may see the secrets of the Fade, another captures the power of the Void. While each talent is different, we are all able to protect ourselves from one another with our own gift.”_

_“So one god cannot kill another?”_

_“I would not say that. There are plenty of ways to kill a god.”_

_“Like what?”_

_“Take away their connection to their power. Take away their foci, their tools, or their territory. But most of all, take away their followers. Without followers, they are nothing. Without people to whisper their names in prayer and in need, gods would simply cease to be.”_

Fen’Harel visited Dirthamen only when his twin soul,Falon’Din crossed beyond the Veil. Together, they were unbearable. Separate,Dirthamen could be reasoned with to let loose the secrets that he held behind his lips. Separate, Falon'Din was utterly impossible. Fen'Harel avoided him, if possible.

He found him in a forest south of Arlathan, a grand,sweeping thing that Andruil’s people had taken and turned into an excellent place for hunting. Dirthamen lounged in the boughs of a tree, watching the elves below that lived in thatched huts with little more than sticks to keep the cold out.

“My brother of secrets watches the poor below, and wonders if they know that they will soon die for sport. He wonders if he should tell such a secret, or let them die in ignorance.” Fen’Harel stood on the limb beside Dirthamen’s, studied his profile. The elf shifted and gave a half-smile.

“They believe they were given this village as a token of their hard work. They believe that Andruil told her priests to give them this land as a reward. They do not know that soon, they will die one by one, an offering from Andruil’s best hunters to their lady. None of them can write, and those they left in the cities cannot read, so no letters pass that would suddenly cease to be received. Those here die, and those left behind know nothing of the fate of those that pass beneath these trees.” His voice was low, gravelly. As he chanted, his eyes flashed white, and then faded slowly, a breath of knowledge from beyond.

“I will keep your secret.” Fen’Harel replied.

“That is why I still speak to you.”

“And that is why I come.” He sat down beside Dirthamen, though he didn’t touch him. The darkness that surrounded his power was something that Fen’Harel had no desire to dabble in. From below, he watched the marked elves gathering sticks for fire, tanning hides from hunting, their brands of Andruil dark against their pale skin. They must have hailed from within Arlathan itself, the ghettos that the poor of caste so dark and dank that the sun barely touched them. The floating city above gave no hope for those below.

“You wish for a secret.”

“And you wish to take one first.”

“Is that so wrong?” Dirthamen continued to watch those below, his eyes dark and calculating. Fen’Harel shrugged, though he felt a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth. The dance he did with Dirthamen was sometimes fun. He seemed to be the only one that could keep up with the wolf.

“I allowed the slave girl to go free.”

“And?”

“And I wish to know Andruil’s troop movements.” Dirthamen closed his eyes, and Fen’Harel felt him feeling along the fade, tugging threads of it for his use. When his eyes opened, they glowed green and then returned to their normal dark color.

“I have seen them turn east, following the river. She returns the main force to her favored holding, a few stragglers remaining behind at one of your temples.” Fen’Harel nodded, pleased to have his suspicions confirmed. She either feared that he would engage them, or she pulled them back from marching on his temple completely. Either way, it was a submissive move of sorts. He could return to his work unmolested.

Unless…those that remained did not remain merely to watch. The thought unsettled him, and he wondered how long it had been since he’d focused on the girl.

“As always, it is a pleasure to trade with you.” He stood up, balancing on the branch lightly.

“A secret for later?” Dirthamen asked. Fen’Harel grinned.

“What do you wish to know?”

“Why did you let the girl go free?”

“I was…curious about what she would do.”

“Curious.” He repeated the word and looked up at Fen’Harel, squinting as though the sight blinded him. “You should be wary of what curiosity can do. It gives as much as it takes.”

Fen’Harel slipped among the boughs of the tree, heading for the forest floor, and he laughed, low and delighted.

“I am looking forward to it.”

 

He returned to his study and, after ensuring that no one had visited while he was gone, he carefully took his foci from its secret compartment and set it on the desk, sliding his fingers over the metal tenderly. It hummed under his touch, warm and responsive. With a sigh, he sat down in his chair and focused, drawing up power from the fade and pressing his hands to the device, unlocking it with a quiet  _click_.

The energy rushed over him, wild and brilliant, and he inhaled deeply. Hundreds of years of dedication and power, and it was his to hold and mold to his will. He flicked his wrist, slid his fingers over tendrils of the fade and latched on to them, standing up and walking to a looking glass on the wall. Satisfied when he felt the magic still and calm under his touch, he pressed his palm to the mirror and whispered a short spell.

The image flickered into view slowly, and at the first hint of resistance he pressed his palm harder against the image, focusing. There was the sensation of something breaking, giving way, and then he could see them, the Hunters of Andruil.

“Don’t you think he will know that we’re here?” Their steps were silent, their bows strung and half-drawn. Their arrows, gifted from June to Andruil, were coated in a special poison, and once they were let loose they did not stop until they met their mark.  _Interesting that such an arrow is drawn in my territory, he thought_. The thought of it did not sit well with him.

“Priest Ghi'Lum said that he received revelation from the goddess that he does not watch these parts overmuch.”

“Is it wise to provoke the wrath of Fen'Harel, though?” The first girl, a thin little thing, whispered, and at her lack of concentration, she stepped on a twig and froze, looking around shiftily. Her companion gave her a look of disgust.

“How did you pass your first hunt if you are so clumsy?” The second girl hissed.

“Sorry,” her clumsier partner muttered.

“Besides,” the second girl continued, “do you not trust in our patron? We hunt with her blessing.”

“Then…” The girl continued walking when the wrath of Fen'Harel didn’t fall on her. “Why are we here? Just to watch her?"

"If we see her, we are to kill her.”

That was all that he needed. Fen'Harel smoothed the rippling looking glass and stepped away, willing the energy back into the foci. As it swirled and clicked back into place, he swept it up into his robes and walked towards the eluvian, opening it with a flick of his wrist. Part of him was pleased that Andruil was going to openly attempt to engage him. The other part of him flickered with rage, indignant. The foolish woman was hot-tempered, possessive, and was willing to risk the wrath of another god for the head of some slave. It had been worthwhile to talk to Dirthamen. Now, if he killed patrons of Andruil, he could have someone in the circle to back his claim about the fool sending her minions to go against Elgar'nan’s will.

He stormed into the temple and walked down the halls, looking for the girl. It seemed that she had continued to clean, every wall glistening under polish and devoid of vine or moss. At another time, he’d have stopped to wonder just how she had been able to clean the massive building of marble and gems, but at the moment, he tried to tell himself that getting to her was more important than begrudgingly admiring her ability to make the entire place look as it had when it was brand new.

He found her in the main hall, where she seemed to have made her camp. She wore the same tunic from before, the baggy wool making her frumpy and shapeless. Better than starved, though. Some part of him was pleased to see her cheeks weren’t as hollow and caved. Though she still looked dangerously thin, whatever it was that she’d found to eat had put some weight on her. There was fight in her, a will to survive. It tickled at the edges of his conscious, demanded some form of recognition or respect.

He’d settle with possibly just saving her life, if it was all the same.

She was hunched over something, fingers quick and nimble. At the sound of his footsteps though, her head jerked up, and she turned to him, eyes wide with surprise.

“Get out of the open.” He commanded. She blinked, frowned.

“What?”

Was she deaf? Had she suffered damage in her ear drums during her time as a slave? She didn’t appear to have any issue before, but perhaps…he glanced past her where he could see the twitch of a branch in the distance. Too close, too close.

“I said, ‘get out of the open.’ Do it, now.” She hesitated, and then stood up slowly, puzzled and a little unsure. He looked past her, out past the pillars where his eyes could see the faintest of movement. She seemed to gauge his emotions based on his stance because she turned as well, tense, like prey before they took flight. And as he heard the whisper of a bowstring, the muted shuff of an arrow, he stopped thinking about prey and predator and foolish girls that didn’t listen to commands. Instead, he flew towards her, grabbing her roughly and throwing her to the side, his hand flying up as he smelled the magic of the arrow start to turn, to curve towards its target. June had crafted well. He felt the piercing sting of the steel biting through his hand, splitting bone and tendon, and as the blood soaked into the head of the arrow, it stilled, the shaft halfway through his palm. He felt the poison release into his bloodstream, and he gritted his teeth, furious.

The girl, sprawled on the floor, stared. But Fen'Harel gave her no mind. The wolf inside of him stirred, growled. He felt the anger rippling, spreading through every nerve ending until he was seeing red, red as stark and foul as the blood that dripped onto the floor of the temple.

_Come closer_ , the wolf whispered,  _so that I may have my way._

He turned towards the entrance, and he could see the cowardly girl from before standing in the bushes, slack-jawed. Beside her, he could faintly see her companion among the foliage, jaw set. Wonderful. Andruil would be so utterly, utterly pleased.

He wasn’t sure how he got to them. One moment, he was in the temple, studying the distance and then looking down to admire the way that the crimson contrasted with the mosaic tiles. Next, he was standing behind them, and his fury was sharpened to a cold, wicked blade.

“You missed your mark. Unless your mark was me. And if that is the case…then this is even more interesting.” The first girl stumbled and turned, her eyes wide. The second girl, Andruil bless her, was more surefooted. She twisted in her crouch, and her silver eyes narrowed. While her counterpart was the face of cowardly fear, she was steady and sure.

“It…it…it was the…girl…” The first girl stammered and then dropped into a bow, her forehead pressed to the jungle floor. Foolish. Foolish, foolish, foolish.

“Ah. So you were killing someone in my temple.”

“Our goddess demanded a sacrifice.” The second girl didn’t bow. Rather, she seemed to grow in confidence, her eyes darkening as she drew herself up to full height. “We do not fear you.”

“Interesting. You do Andruil credit, by doing her bidding.” Fen'Harel held up his hand and he felt his lips curl up over his teeth as he showed them the arrow that still held fast. “But, you see, you have failed. The mark has hit me, instead.”

“It was an accident, an accident, your worship…” The first girl murmured.

“Ah, your hand slipped on the bow?"

"Andruil will protect us.” The second girl hissed. The sound was sharp, pointed. It made the wolf instead of him all but growl.

“Oh, of that I have no doubt.” He replied, and to their horror and shock, he grabbed the shaft and ripped it through his hand, suspending the weapon in the air. The humid jungle air stung his hand, but he paid it no mind. It was not the sort of pain that would fell a god. There was little that could.

“But let us test that, shall we? We will make a bet, you and I."

"I do not fear you.” The girl snapped.

“You should. You will run. And I will give chase. If I catch you, then you are mine. If your goddess loves you, she will speed your step from me.”

“I will not play your game.” Fen'Harel felt the wolf twist, growl, lunge. He laughed lightly.

“You will. Or I will devour you here. For you see…I have already caught your scent. And it is appealing to me.” He saw her hand twitch, wondered what sign she drew on her thigh for protection. It was a superstitious action, one from the lower castes.

“…If I outrun you, I live?” She spoke slowly, the furrow in her brow deep.

“Naturally. I will even give you a head start.” He motioned towards the trail in the jungle, the sun shining on it like a pathway to the heavens. “But I suggest you start…now.”

She did not hesitate. The girl took off running, leaving her foolish partner on the ground, her steps light and sure. She was not like the slave girl that was of no muscle and no energy. Her arms pumped, her muscles flexed, and she practically flew across the plants and lichen. For anyone giving chase, it would have been a tough race.

Fen'Harel fashioned a bow from the fade with little thought, the string glowing an eerie, ethereal green. He slowly lifted the arrow and fitted it onto the string leisurely, easily, resting it on his hand as he aimed. There was a hum in the air, the steady thrumming of magic that’d been crafted into the very heart of the arrow. As he heard it, he felt his lip twitch in pleasure. June had done well.

“This arrow was crafted by June’s finest worshipers.” He informed the girl that remained behind. "As you well know, it will not stop until it hits the target.“ The girl peeked up at him, trembling.

"I…you…” She stammered, fumbled, stopped. Fen'Harel casually aimed the arrow at the girl’s back as she ran, the bow drawn taut and ready to be released.

“What is your name?"

"A'ien, your worship.” She whispered.

“A'ien. If your goddess cares for your friend, she will stop the arrow with her hand, suspending its magic, as I have done. If she does not, then your friend shall die.”

“You said that you were going to chase her.” Her eyes widened, and her shoulders jerked in shock as she fell back.

“I am going to chase her. I am going to let this arrow chase her all over this earth until her feet give out from under her. You will tell your goddess that this is as I have said, and so it shall be. There are none under this sun that shall start war with me and not regret it in the end. Tell her that.”

“I-I…I will." He let loose the arrow, and the energy that poured from it took his breath away. So much power, so much magic. He inhaled and waved the bow away, stepping over the foolish elf as he did so.

"And I would garner your courage before you go to your priest to deliver the message.” He drawled, heading back towards the temple. “Lest your lady cut your throat for your cowardice.”


	7. Lupa

Chapter 6:

_ When a slave was brought before him, his vallaslin pale against his dark skin, Fen’Harel smiled. It was rare that his priests caught runaways in his territory, but when they did it was always amusing.  _

_ “A slave of Elgar’nan. Did you not enjoy serving in the name of vengeance?” The man spit, and his white teeth contrasted sharply against his skin.  _

_ “Do what you will, God of rebellion. I will not put on a show for your audience.” There was something in the way that he spoke, the way that he held himself, that gave Fen’Harel pause. The words tickled at the back of his head, and as he recognized the sound and the cadence of the man’s voice, he smiled. _

_ “You are not one of Elgar’nan’s, though you wear his brand.” He looked over to his priests, his smile growing at their confusion.  _

_ “Your worship, we do not understand.” His head priest, the Keeper, bowed his head humbly, the others following suit. Down below him, the man with the vallaslin stared up suspiciously.  _

_ “What trick are you trying to pull?” He asked.  _

_ “No trick.” He stood up and walked down the steps of the temple, sweeping his arms out as he neared the man. “For you are not his, nor were you ever.” Before the elf could protest or jerk away from him, Fen’Harel seized him by the face and slid his thumbs over the harsh, painful markings, murmuring a spell under his breath. _

_ Nothing changed, at first. Then slowly, effortlessly, the blood writing fell away underneath his touch, leaving the man’s skin flawless and clean. A magical energy swept over him, cleansing the once-slave of any remaining brands.  _

_ Fen’Harel lowered his hands, and the man stumbled away from him, glaring. When he seemed to realize that nothing horrid had happened to him though, he unclenched his hands and felt about his face, trying to see just what had happened.  _

_ “Look into my pool and see what you truly are. No slave of Elgar’nan, but a servant of Fen’Harel.” Fen’Harel turned away from the man and walked up the steps, pleased beyond measure as he recounted the memory of the man’s speech. “For how many prayers passed silently from your lips that I did not hear? Your face speaks of vengeance, but your heart beats my name. Serve me the way that your heart wishes for you to, and you will have what you desire.” _

_ He did not wait for the man to look into the waters. He knew what the newly freed elf would see: a face devoid of brands, the ability to go where his heart desired. And although the man would have the freedom to leave his temple, Fen’harel knew well enough that the next morning, he would have already sworn to the Keeper of his undying faith, forever a servant of the Dread Wolf. _

When he walked back into the temple, the girl was waiting for him by the entrance. Her pine green eyes were bright, far too bright. She must have seen everything. He brushed past her and walked towards the place where he’d bled, the anger from before surfacing again, although in such a manner that he could control it. She had tossed a rag over the spot, something to cover the deed. 

“You’re hurt.” She whispered, and he grunted.

“I am not.” He would have raised his hand to show her, but there was no real point. He could feel the his power inside of him countering the poison in his bloodstream, the toxins washing away with ease. It was a magic that he didn’t have to consider. It was as natural as breathing.

“You took an arrow for me.” Her voice was close, too close. He turned back to her, and she stood a mere foot away, a furrow in her brow.

“It is of no consequence. If you had heeded my words, there would have never been need to do so.” He moved away from the tiles, walking up the stairs to head back to the eluvian now that his business was over. Mythal would be intrigued to hear about Andruil’s daring actions. If he wished, he could have raised an army against her for it.

It wasn’t quite time for such a thing.

“How did you know to come here?” She followed him, her footsteps light.

“A coincidence, I assure you.” He paused, turning his head slightly to look back at her. “I came for a book.”

“A book?” She didn’t sound entirely convinced.

“Yes,” he snapped, turning away from the eluvian. “A book.” Unwilling to allow her to think otherwise, he headed towards the library, moving through pillars depicting him in his wolf form, dark, fearsome. In a particularly detailed carving, his fangs dripped blood. He passed a hand over the fangs on the carving affectionately as he walked by. It’d taken years to finish, the acolyte slaving over every precious detail as he concentrated on the precise curves and lines that he wanted to create. When it was complete, he had bowed before Fen'Harel and said that there was more soul in his art than what was left in his heart. Fen'Harel removed his vallaslin in thanks.

“Do you need help finding it?” He scoffed and shook his head as he stepped up to the double doors of the library, pushing them aside.

“Why would I-” He stopped, the words drying up in his throat.

It was his library. But looking at it, he’d have never known.

It had once been shelves upon shelves of bookcases, tomes and scrolls stacked haphazardly with little to no organization. He had found everything by memory rather than alphabetization, and that had suited him just fine. Now though, every single dusty tome and shelf had been wiped down with some sort of oil that let out a fresh, clean scent. Incense burned close to a window that he’d long forgotten existed, drapes fluttering in the breeze. Drapes? When were there drapes in the library? He blinked, and he could recall such a scene, priests clothed in robes of rich fabric pouring over ancient text, taking in the cool wind as silk hangings fluttered and twisted around themselves. He blinked again, and the girl walked past him, studying the shelves. Her bony shoulders pushed against the wool of the tunic.

“Slaves are not allowed to read.”

“There is not much that you know about me to make that statement.” A scowl darkened her expression, then slowly cleared as she composed herself. “…I can read just fine.”

“I see.”

“You had nothing…organized, so I thought I would do it. It looks better this way, I promise.” She glanced back at him, but he wasn’t paying attention to her anymore as he gently touched the leather spine of an ancient work. The magic infused into the pages whispered to him, whispered their ancient spells and their promise of power.

“Is it organized by the writer, or by the title?”

“Neither." She looked confused. “I organized them by topic, then in alphabetical order of title.” He nodded his head in approval, although he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the fact that he wasn’t entirely surprised that she could read. She’d already proven herself as resourceful and sharp. Even facing down a god, she didn’t seem entirely afraid.

“What purpose do you have being in this part of the temple?”

“Fen'Harel…” Her tone made him pause in his studying of a book he’d forgotten ever having. A gift from Sylaise, something to smooth her sister Andruil’s ragged and abrasive behavior. It had been from the beginning, from when things weren’t quite so convoluted.

“Yes?”

“I am so much more than these markings.” She began, and he smiled to himself. It was what everyone said.  _We are so much more than what you will let us be_ , he’d once heard.  _You try to put us in a box, try to define us with one look. But we are so much more._

“You are not the first one to tell me that.” He said. “You will certainly not be the last.”

“But I am the first one that you have taken an arrow for. You threw me to the side to prevent my death.”

“That is a matter of pride, girl.”

“Lupa! My name is Lupa!”

“Lupa!” He snapped. “Yes, yes, Lupa. You live because you remain within this temple. Those…unfortunate pawns were going make things difficult. As long as you remain in the sanctuary that you have claimed, you are not to be harmed.”

“Claimed?” She demanded incredulously.

“Claimed.” He affirmed, turning his gaze onto her. “I did not invite you here. You come to my temple and you demand sanctuary. It is given out of mercy, but not out of desire.”

“This isn’t mercy!”

“You are alive, are you not?” He asked coolly.

“I’m held prisoner in these walls!”

“Then by all means,  _Lupa,_ you may leave when you wish. But know that Andruil is waiting, and I will not take another arrow for you. You are safe only because you remain here, in the sanctuary that you  _claimed_.”

“Then I will die here?” Her hands clenched into fists.

“Do you have the lifespan of an animal? Of course you won’t. But if you leave these walls, you shall most certainly die.” She started to say something, and then stopped herself, her eyes narrowing.

“You…you say that Andruil is waiting. Did you talk to her? Did you make a deal with her?” He snorted, although the sound was an ugly one. He grabbed a book at random and walked out of the library, intent on leaving. Being around her was starting to make him anxious, restless.

“I would hardly call it a deal. You know well enough that the gods work together to create a harmonious balance for our people.” He said it sarcastically, though she wouldn’t know it from his tone. Harmonious, indeed. They were as harmonious as the baying of adolescent hounds.

“You spoke of me with her. As long as I stay in here, she is not allowed to harm me?” Did she never cease following him? He marveled at the idea of someone so intent on always staring at another’s back.

“That was the idea, yes.” She stepped in front of him, and he stopped short of running into her. It was much like the last time that he saw her, her arms thrown out and her eyes alight with something that sparked the rebellious side of him.

“You used me!” She exclaimed.

“…I fail to see how I used you.”

“You said that the gods don’t care about us. We’re  _beneath you.”_ She said the word like it was a joke, something foolish and not worth the breath to say.

“…I am failing to see your point altogether. Move.”

“You don’t care about me. But you still keep me in your temple, safe behind your walls. Why?”

“It is a well known fact that those seeking sanctuary shall not be denied.”

“If they are one of your people.” She countered, and the glint in her eye sharpened. “I am marked as Andruil’s slave, therefore you have no reason to allow me sanctuary. You are not bound by any writ to even offer it. You didn’t have to do that. But you did!”

“Something that I am fast beginning to regret.”

“You used me, Fen'Harel. You granted me sanctuary, not from the kindness of your heart, but because there is something about me that you feel like you can use.”

“Does that upset you?” He growled, leaning over her. He didn’t like how she was trying to read him, to pin him down. “Does that make you angry that I did? There is no door to keep you from leaving. If the idea upsets you so much, then you are welcome to leave my temple in peace.” He stepped around her, tucking the book into his robes. The temple was one of the few places that he often found comfort in, and now he couldn’t venture within without her chattering in his ear.

“You don’t understand! I want you to use me!” Her words stopped him short, though he didn’t turn around to face her. There was an echo, a voice from ages past, that hauntingly sounded in his ears, prickling at memories he had long since sat aside.

“…What do you think you are saying?”

“I said, I want you to use me. You are planning something, I can see it. There must be some sort of plan, some sort of end game. I want to be part of it.” She didn’t walk closer to him, and for that he was grateful. Pressed snugly against his side, the foci hummed with power, a silent affirmation of her words.

“Now I know your mind must be addled. I know nothing of what you say.”

“Use me!” She shouted, and her voice shook with emotion. “I want to help you! There is something on the horizon, and I want to be part of it!”

Silence fell in the temple, broken only by the gurgle of the stream that flowed in a groove beside the pathway. He didn’t have to see her to know that she was breathing raggedly, shoulders trembling with the effort. He didn’t have to look at her to know that her eyes were glinting like daggers, her mouth thinned to a sharp, furious line. He sighed, shrugged his shoulders to shake the image of her from his head. For a moment, he wondered why he hadn’t let the Hunters kill her.

Ah. Because she was his. Not marked of face but of heart.

After another long, stressed moment, he walked away from her, unlocking the eluvian with a flick of his wrist. He wasn’t going to tell her no. Although she thought his silence was a denial, it was far from it.

_ You foolish girl,  _ he thought to himself,  _you already are._


	8. Sylaise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I think I've fixed the problem with the chapters. I would go back through each one if possible, it'll be the official chapter 4 that was added because in transferring, I totally missed it. I'm sorry for the trouble!

Chapter 7:

_When the final mages joined them, there was a ripple of disgruntled agreement. Instead of eight, there were nine._

_“Who have you brought?” One of them demanded, tone verging on outright anger._

_“She has promise. After doing me a favor, she shall join us.” Fen’Harel smiled. It was not often that the others surprised him, but even now he could see that there was no one that was not shocked by the ninth member. She was thin, sallow. She was pretty in the way that a wild animal was pretty -you could look, but if you touched she would snap your hand off. After making eye contact with everyone, she turned her look adoringly to her patroness._ Ah _, he realized,_ it is a pawn. We have scarce begun, and she has already brought a pawn. _The thought made him lick his lips in anticipation._

_This was going to be fun._

Fen’Harel did not enjoy going to see Falon’Din. He had known Elgar’nan and Mythal the longest, along with Dirthamen, and he never ceased to remind the others of it. Fen’Harel was always tempted to point out the fact that Dirthamen had known Elgar’nan and Mythal just as long and didn’t boast and wax eloquent on the matter. But he didn’t particularly enjoy outright squabbles with Falon’Din. The god was vain, proud, and altogether annoying in the worst sort of way. But he was a necessary evil, one that could not be ignored. 

His temples were always dark, a pall cast over them from his constant crossing into the Void. The one that Falon’Din frequented the most was towards the north, a floating monument that was nestled between two mountain peaks, a powerful magic keeping it airborne . He always turned towards the most extravagant, stating that since he alone escorted souls into the Void, then he should have his temples in places where many could not reach. As Fen’Harel walked the steps to the top, he noted the many worshipers that were kneeling at small alters, giving offerings as they made their pilgrimage. Once or twice, he noticed the slaves that stood a respectful distance away from their masters, their markings of the God of Death emblazoned on their faces. When one made eye contact with him, they hurriedly looked away, head bowed.

No one knew that it was Fen’Harel that made the climb. He kept a glamour on himself, a spell so easy and natural to him that when he first made eye contact with a priest, the lack of recognition angered him. But as the priest bowed and welcomed a newcomer to the temple, he remembered the spell and laughed to himself. Sometimes, he was so clever as to trick himself.

He stepped into the main hall and walked along the onyx path, the stone glittering under vaelfire. He skirted around a small mass of lords and ladies, slipping into the shadows that the pillars cast. He did not want to walk the path to the pool of offering, where worshipers cast aside their worldly clothing to walk well with Falon’Din. The demands of the gods were base, shameful at best.

“You should not be here.” A low, angered voice sounded from his left, and Fen’Harel heard the unmistakable sound of a bow being drawn back. He inhaled, and he smelled two others in the shadows, their bows drawn as well. They smelled of old, decaying flesh, though he knew they would look youthful and spry. The acts done in the halls of the temple aged ones soul, though they did not physically show it. He wished that he could block out the stench.

“Take me to your Keeper. I know that he is here.” He did not lift his hands, did not bother to pretend fear. If he needed, he could snap the necks of the guards, and in truth Falon’Din would care little. The followers that came to him, reeking of fear of the unknown, were frequent and unstoppable. They sold their lives for security. Three mere guards would hardly upset him.

“You are not permitted to see him. You must follow the ritual and take the rites.”

“Boy, you will take me to your Keeper. You will regret not doing so.”

“If you don’t go back to where you are meant to be, I-”

“Lower your weapon, Tiadan.” The voice was low, demanding. The one named Tiadan was so well trained that he didn’t pause to consider the words. He let his arm drop, lifting the arrow from the string and stepping back, wordlessly. Fen’Harel heard the other two follow suit, and he smiled. Standing beside a torch of vaelfire, the Keeper tucked his arms into his sleeves, wearing robes of midnight and muffled darkness.

“This man is my guest. We will not treat him poorly.”

“Yes, Keeper.” The men chanted, and he heard the sound of them thumping their chests respectfully, some form of salute. Delightful.

“I do apologize. Follow me.” It wasn’t quite a question, but it wasn’t quite a demand. Fen’Harel watched the Keeper’s back turn, and after a moment he followed him down another path, the corridors twisting and winding around themselves, everything drenched in darkness.

The farther they walked into the temple, he could feel the presence of strong magic users. Ever so often, there was a brush of energy plucking at his robes, ruffling his hair. A bold mage had tried to brush their energy against his mind, to test its strength. He crushed their spell so quickly and so roughly that he heard a  _thump_  of surprise as the fool fell from their chair and grabbed their own head in pain. Finally, the mages that crept in doorways and skulked in the shadows seemed to realize that he was not one to test. 

The Keeper led him into a study decorated in colors as drab and oppressing as the rest of the temple. Books lined one wall, another wall a stained glass representation of Falon’Din. Fen’Harel had heard of the design. Dirthamen, when his brother had first left him and crept into the Void, had made it in mourning until his twin soul could return to him. Those that gazed upon it for too long were said to have the image imprinted onto their very eyelids.

“Welcome, and be seated.” The Keeper sat down in a chair of black velvet and red silk. He leaned against the back of the chair and appraised Fen’Harel, his lip quirking. “Though, I would appreciate it if you did not threaten my guards.”

“It was not a threat.” The Keeper hmm’d in response.

“I suppose not. Fen’Harel does not make threats. He merely deals in promises.”

“And Falon’Din would not truly miss them if they were to suddenly…die.” The Keeper chuckled, and before Fen’Harel’s eyes, the dour face and wispy hair melted away to reveal his true expression, one of black delight. 

“You would happily make more work for me.” He said, his voice the same as before. That had been his giveaway. His voice. Fen’Harel would have known it, even if it came from the throat of a complete stranger.

“You make enough work for yourself, being the Keeper of every single one of your temples.”

“I do not trust them to run my temples as well as I could.” Falon’Din said unapologetically. If he had it in him, Fen’Harel would have laughed. Only one as arrogant as Falon’Din would not only be the escort of the dead into the Void, but also attempt to run his own temples as well. 

“You are indeed methodical in your work.” 

“Flattery will not endear you to me.” 

“I was not trying to flatter you. If you thought so, my apologies for not being more direct with you.” 

“What is it that you want, Fen’Harel?” Falon’Din sat forward, his lips pursed in mild annoyance. He had not hidden his general dislike of Fen’Harel in the past. They disagreed on many things, had made the walls of their meeting circle shake with their arguments. And in the end, Elgar’nan often sided with Falon’Din, much to the fool’s amusement. Fen’Harel licked his lips, pressing his repulsion deep, deep down. 

“Andruil attempted to have the slave girl in my temple killed.” His words had just the right amount of power behind them. Falon’Din’s expression turned to shock. And then there was a flicker of suspicion. 

“Do you think so?” He asked lightly, steepling his fingers as he considered the god across from him. “That is a grave accusation.” 

“I sent an arrow of June after the welp for her misdeed. You should have her soul within the year. She cannot run forever, no matter what blessing she thinks Andruil gave her.” 

“And why do you tell me this?” Falon’Din’s eyebrows rose. June would not shoot his own arrows. It was a well known fact that he had given them to Andruil for her use. Fen’Harel pretended to think, leaning back in his own chair and staring up at the ceiling. There was a painting of the void on the stone, a swirling darkness of the unknown. There were precious few that ventured there. Falon’Din and Andruil, although only Falon’Din returned unscathed. Fen’Harel wondered how long it would be before Andruil would lose her mind completely from the darkness of what came After. And although Dirthamen knew, that was one secret that he would not trade. 

“I want her soul when it passes to you.” Falon’Din laughed. Rather, he let out a sharp, guttural noise that could be interpreted as laughter. He was assembled from mixed parts of sarcasm, greed, and somberness with little humor about himself to truly call it a laugh. But it was as close as it could get. 

“What use would you have for such a thing, Fen’Harel?” He asked. 

“You are not your other half; there are no secrets I am required to give you.”

“And yet, you offer nothing in return for such generosity.” 

“Tell Dirthamen that it is payment for a secret freely given.” 

“That does nothing for me.” Falon’Din snapped. 

“You are twin souls, are you not? His payment is yours.” He watched Falon’Din chew his words around, consider them. He couldn’t disagree, for out of any of them, those two were tied in such a way that no one else was. And yet, he technically benefited in no way whatsoever. If anything, he lost a soul for his brother receiving something. Was it worth it, for his brother? 

“Andruil will not be pleased that you have two of her people.” 

“And Elgar’nan will not be pleased that she attempted to go against his decision. Behind his back, no less.” He enjoyed the look of realization on Falon’Din’s face. No matter his own arrogance, he would never cross Elgar’nan. In this, Fen’Harel was confidant. 

“…I will confirm this with Dirthamen before I agree to anything.” He warned. Fen’Harel laughed. 

“Take your time. She is fast. It will take some time before she dies.” He stood up, looked up at the hand-painted void and nodded his head in approval. 

“They did well.” 

“They always do. When one both adores and fears, there is never any error. You would know this better if you kept your priests.” Fen’Harel shrugged, smiled sardonically. 

“…When I leave, would you like for me to keep the door open for the girl outside?” He walked to the door and opened it, glancing back at Falon’Din with raised eyebrows. Outside, a girl with slave markings waited, head bowed. Her hair fell in long, thick curls, barely covering breasts that weren’t confined in smallclothes. Under Fen’Harel’s scrutiny, she ducked her head more. From inside the room, Falon’Din laughed his dark, blood-curdling laugh. 

“She is beautiful, no? Send her in.” The girl didn’t wait. She ducked under Fen’Harel’s arm and scurried into the room, walking around the desk to face Falon’Din. She dropped wordlessly onto her knees, bowing as low as she could with her forehead pressed to the ground. The sheer gold skirt hung low on her hips, and flared around her as she knelt. 

“Beautiful indeed.” Fen’Harel walked away before the wolf inside of him could lunge. 

* * *

 

Mythal was with Sylaise when he went to her. He found them with a simple spell, a spell that alerted her to his presence when he arrived. He did not like surprising Mythal, always wanted her approval before he wasted her time.

They walked along the River Abelas, a river of sorrow that wound out from the city beneath Arlathan and traveled south along their entire land. When he reached them, he bowed his head politely to Mythal and winked at Sylaise. 

“Fen’Harel comes to protect us in our walk.” Mythal said conversationally to Sylaise, smiling. Sylaise shifted, uncomfortable. She was sister of Andruil, and although their dispositions were as opposite as day and night, she held some semblance of loyalty to her. 

“The world is a dangerous place.” He said, keeping pace with them leisurely. Mythal walked between the two of them, keeping him separate from Sylaise. Had she gone to her, whispering words of worry? He tasted the air, pleased to smell the wariness of an animal that felt cornered. They would either submit, or lash out. Knowing Sylaise, she would submit. 

“Then we are more than grateful to have you here, aren’t we, Sylaise?” Sylaise’s smile wavered as she glanced over at him. 

“That depends more upon whether or not the protection is extended to both parties.” Fen’Harel stopped walking, staring at her with what he hoped looked like mild injury. 

“My dear Sylaise.” He took her hand and bowed over it, pressing a chaste kiss to her skin. “If I have done anything to make you nervous of me, I would know it. We have no quarrel, you and I." 

"Careful,” she warned, her light tone deceiving. “Lest I think you are genuine in your kindness." 

"But I am. All was settled at our last meeting, I thought?” He stood and looked at Mythal, holding Sylaise’s hand gently. “I had supposed it was.” Mythal nodded and folded her arms over her robes of brilliant sky blue, the color bold against the green of the grass and the toffee of the tree bark behind her. 

“Then all is well, sister-mine. For aren’t we family?" 

"If Andruil could hear you now, she’d bite at your neck.” Sylaise laughed. 

“I welcome it, if it is all in good fun." 

"It is never fun with Andruil." 

"Then we won’t speak of her. For this is meant to be a pleasant walk, devoid of trouble.” He tucked her arm in his and steered them along the river bank, looking around them with a faux curiosity. Mythal walked on his other side, a clever smile fluttering about her mouth. 

In the amiable silence, Sylaise began humming, a sweet and pure sound. Fen’Harel watched the water begin to churn and then turn direction entirely, flowing north instead of south, enchanted with her voice. Overhead, the birds fluttered about them, their wings of emerald and sapphire and ruby glinting in the sunlight that suddenly lovingly grazed them instead of torching them. 

“A voice to make a god kneel at your feet.” Fen’Harel murmured to her. Sylaise smiled and continued humming, charming the animals from the forest, the fish leaping in the river, their scales sparkling. Mythal laughed as she watched. 

“I often enjoy my walks with her for this. None of the lower castes come this way. We are alone but the glory of nature." 

"And it is glorious indeed.” Sylaise stopped humming, the tightness of her shoulders relaxing as she looked about them to see those that followed them adoringly. 

“It has been some time since we walked together, us three.” Sylaise said, and she sounded regretful. 

“I do miss this. Why, you have charmed the halla out from the safety of the trees. Ghilan’nain will be jealous.” At the mention of the other goddess, Sylaise stilled, and the peace from before fell away almost instantly. 

“…She would be, yes.” She replied thinly, and at the change in her tone Fen’harel watched the animals’ behavior change. The fish stopped jumping. The water churned and flowed the correct way once more. The halla all but ran back to the forest, their lithe bodies leaping over roots and rocks. Fen’Harel glanced at Mythal, but she only looked away, eyes shielded from him. 

“…There is issue with Ghilan’nain?” He asked lightly. But Sylaise was already pulling away, tension in every angle of her normally genteel face. Goddess of the Hearth. Goddess of the home, of motherhood. For her to be tense… 

“I must return to the home tree. My priests will need my direction. ‘Tis the season of childbearing.” She said, and Mythal nodded in understanding. 

“Go safe, my dear." 

"Sylaise…” Fen’Harel said, and she looked up at him, poised to flee. He could sense the magic around her, quick and sharp, flitting about. He resisted the urge to taste it, for he knew it was doused in fear. 

“Fen’Harel.” She murmured. “A pleasure to know that you hold no quarrel.” Before he could say anything, she turned and walked away from them, her robes of earthen tones fluttering in the breeze. He didn’t have time to be tempted to follow her. Mythal grabbed his arm and, much like he had done to Sylaise, she tucked hers into it. 

“You have been busy.” Mythal chided. She forced him to continue walking along the riverbank, though the emotion in the air made him want to run. 

“I do what I must." 

"I saw a girl.” Mythal informed him. “I stepped from my temple in the early morning, and you would be surprised to know that it was a Hunter of Andruil." 

"Why would Andruil have a Hunter in your territory?” He asked, ignoring the way that her grip on him tightened. 

“Oh, she was not hunting, Dread Wolf. To my surprise, I saw her running. And following closely behind her, I saw an arrow of June." 

"June was always tricky. How cruel of him, to ply his trade with people that have not the power to stop him." 

"June shot no arrow at her back.” Mythal said warningly. 

“And Andruil did not send Hunters to kill the slave girl in my temple.” Mythal stopped walking. 

“…That is a grave accusation, falon." 

"And it was a grave miscalculation on her part. Are you not the mother of justice?" 

"Justice was not served, that day.” Mythal snapped. “Do not confuse the games that you play with justice that I have served in the past.” Fen’Harel nodded slowly, ducked his head. There were not many that could cow him. But Mythal was wisdom and kindness incarnate, with just enough cleverness and quick wit that he loved her for it, even when it was used against him. 

“I am sorry.” He said quietly. 

“No you are not.” She replied, not unkindly. 

“…I am not. Not truly. But I do not enjoy upsetting you.” She reached over and patted his arm lightly. Before them, covered in a veil of darkness, the ghettos of Arlathan stood. Miles above them, floating with a powerful and ancient magic, Arlathan proper cast its shadow over them, basking them in a forever night. The smell of the poor and unwashed reached them, even as they stood well away from the walls where the lower castes resided. Fen’Harel stared at the bleak and crumbling city, and without entirely meaning to, he growled. 

“Yes, it is a poor sight to see.” Mythal agreed, and her voice was full of sorrow. 

“And here I was thinking that it smells better than last I saw it.” Mythal chuckled. 

“Tell your jokes as you must. I know your true colors." 

"Careful; I change them so rapidly that you may not truly know." 

"I know the colors that you change them to before you ever change them. I know you better than you know yourself.” Fen’Harel smiled, and it was the first true smile in quite some time. 

“This is true, old friend.”


	9. Rebel

**Chapter 8:**

_A woman touched his robe, and he twitched it out of her hand. She smelled old, rotten. When she smiled up at him, he saw her missing many teeth._

_“You have come for us.” She whispered, and her milky white eyes of blindness unsettled him. That such a race as theirs could fall so low…he looked over the undesirables, those of the lowest caste, and he repressed a shudder._

_“I have come.” He amended her words lightly, kindly. He would have knelt, but the refuse and dirt was everywhere. The elves huddled in alleys, trembled in puddles. His people. The words tasted like the ash that floated down from Arlathan above._

_“Will you save us?” She asked, and although she could not see, her eyes bore into his intently._

_“I will try.”_

_Her smile warmed him just as much as it made him want to cry._

He was dreaming, lost in the fade. All around him, spirits flitted and went about their business, their ethereal bodies iridescent and light. A spirit of compassion flitted by him, but he gently avoided the creature. It was more often than not that mankind ruined such innocent creatures, their own desires and sins weighing down the poor thing until they adapted to the pressure and turned wicked, evil. More often than not, he had witnessed mages twisting the spirits to their own perverse need, making them into demons. He did not have mercy with beings such as that. While rare, they still did exist. That is, until Fen'Harel caught their scent. 

Sylaise made him wary, unsure of where she stood with Andruil and Ghilan’nain. From her reaction, Andruil had done something, and used her lackey for the dirty work. And although Sylaise may have not had any part of it, she certainly knew something. It was a pity. She was a genteel woman, and the mantle she took up for the people was one of tenderness, creation and dedication. Out of any of the gods whose people kept slaves, he could say for certain that they had the best treatment, if slavery could ever have such a thing. Her people that flocked to her banner were kind and turned towards service. When he walked among them, he did not see their shoulders slumped in work so hard that their backs creaked with the effort to stand. 

As he was dreaming, he felt a disturbance. There was a shift, a tickling in the back of his mind that he swatted at irritably. He didn’t wish to leave the fade, the wonders of it enticing and ever-changing. But as he walked farther into the fade, the brushes of consciousness didn’t leave him. If anything, it grew in persistence, until his mind was near to bursting with whispers, hushed but demanding of his attention. They were gnats, flies that buzzed and hissed against his ear.

_There are worshipers in your temple_ , a spirit whispered to him. He nodded, a flicker of anger that he quickly stomped down while the spirit was near. 

“I sense them.” He sighed, unwillingly extracting himself from the fade. When his eyes opened, he allowed himself to feel his anger more acutely. He could hear them better, now that he was awake. Prayers from multiple people, loud and insistent. And he knew exactly which temple they prayed in. 

By the time he’d dressed himself in proper clothing and traveled to the temple, the prayers had increased. As had his anger. He stormed down the hall, inhaled the smell of multiple bodies, and he snarled. The foolish girl. Lupa, she’d said her name was. He let out another irritable growl. As he reached the main hall, he stood by his throne and stared out at them all, hands clenching and unclenching. 

Kneeling, foreheads pressed against the ground, there seemed to be hundreds of them crammed together, struggling to find space as they prayed. The noise, a sound he hadn’t heard in so long, insistently pressed against the back of his skull, a headache that he knew would take long to leave. And at the front of the group, her voice the loudest in his mind, knelt Lupa. 

“Enough!” He shouted, and at his voice the noise shuddered to a stop. The pressure in his mind eased, and he could finally concentrate somewhat, breathe around the cacophony of noise that’d bombarded him. The people, not as many as hundreds, but at least one hundred, slowly sat up, shifting until they all faced him with their legs crossed, knees pressed against the people beside them as they all crowded around to stare up at him. Some openly gawked. Others quickly averted their eyes, heads bowed. Among the masses, he could see just as many slaves as he saw Freemen. At the front, Lupa stared up at him with fire in her eyes and a small, grim smile dominating the bottom half of her face. She rose fluidly and bowed deeply, ever humble although her eyes betrayed her. Every inch of muscle she used to show humility, but as she rose and clasped her hands behind her back, her face betrayed her. A victory. She thought she was claiming victory.

“Truly, we are a blessed people.” She said, voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “For who else can say that their god came in person to bless them? Who else can say that their god listens to their prayers so attentively?” 

“Who are these people?” He almost didn’t recognize his own voice -it was too dark. Too venemous. 

“They are your people, Fen’Harel. They come to you in their time of need to give thanks for you, and to ask for your continued blessing.” He looked over the masses as she spoke, taking in the many that were nodding along with her words like they were scripture, like they were somehow precious. 

It had been some time since he felt such anger. It started in his core, a tingling heat that grew stronger with every heartbeat, his blood flow egging it on. He found himself inhaling roughly, and a red haze shuttered over his vision. When he could grapple his voice into something that could be used, he tasted blood on his tongue.

“Come here.” He growled. “Now.” She didn’t bat an eyelash at his tone. She bowed once more and slowly walked up the steps to him. He looked out over the mass of people watching them, and as his anger continued to fester and spread, he jerked his shoulder and stalked down the hall to the library, the only indication of her following him being the soft, light breathing that came from behind. 

He threw the doors to the library open, the hinges groaning in protest of his force. And as he began to pace, his blood curdling with a heat as intense as fire, the sound of Lupa gently closing the doors behind them threw him over the edge. He jerked around and grabbed her, slamming her against the doors with enough force to break something. 

 “What have you done?” He hissed, staring down at her. She glared up at him, resilient. 

“I sent a few messages.” She replied, and to his utter fury her voice was completely calm, devoid of fear. He inhaled, and it just added to his anger to taste the lack of fear, and instead sense that she was angry as well, a fury that simmered and threatened to blow. 

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!” He roared, and he jerked her forward and slammed her back against the wood, his fingers digging into her shoulders violently. He felt the magic, his emotions calling it to him without him even realizing it, and the desire to use it nearly overwhelmed him. It would be so easy, so easy to kill her. He wouldn’t even have to use magic, if he didn’t want to. She was thin, ragged. He slid his hand up to her neck, could feel every vein and bone underneath his palm. 

“I brought you followers.” She snapped. “I told you that they were out there, Fen’Harel, and I was correct. I thought that I would show you that they are out there, and I was right.” 

“Do you think that this is what I wanted?” He seethed. She glared up at him unflinchingly. 

“I don’t give a damn what you think you want. I brought you what you need.” His hand curled, and he punched the wood beside her head, the material splintering under the attack. His knuckles stung, but he didn’t care. He was past caring. So much planning, so much time spent calculating… 

“You know nothing of what I need.” He breathed, and before he could break her neck, he let go of her and stepped away, pacing furiously as he attempted to wrangle his emotions in. It was difficult, so very, very difficult. He was not used to someone deliberately disobeying him, let alone someone that was once a slave. Who did she think she was? Just who did she think _he_ was? 

“I know you’re planning something. And I know that you seem to think that you have to do it alone. But you don’t, Fen’Harel! These are all people that want to help, to serve you however you see fit.  _Use_  us!” She seemed to realize that she was very much in danger. She didn’t move from her place by the door, although he could still sense her lack of fear. She was either very, very stupid, or had some misconstrued sense of bravery. 

“You do not know what you are suggesting.” 

“Because you will not tell me.” 

“You have not earned the right to be privy to a god’s thoughts.” He glanced back at her, lip curling cruelly. “Do you suppose you are my keeper? That you deserve to know how my mind works?” There was a flicker of something in her gaze, something that gave him pause. A shift of discomfort, her weight moving from one foot to the other.

“…What have you done?” He growled. 

“It wasn’t me!” She defended quickly, holding her hands up before he lunged. “I sent the messages to them, and as they arrived they just assumed that I was. Even when I said that I wasn’t, and that you’d appoint a Keeper when you saw fit, they just kept telling the other newcomers that I was!” 

“A convenient story.” 

“I have no reason to lie to you, Fen’Harel.” She snapped. 

“You have yet to heed anything that I have told you.” 

“Because I want to help you! And if that means that I have to make some choices that you don’t agree with, then so be it.” Silence fell in the room as Fen’Harel stared at her, his temper from before ebbing away with each wave of words. With that, a flicker of shame. This was why he avoided most people, why he kept to his temples alone. But he would not apologize. Gods did not apologize. Gods did not have to explain themselves, did not have to divulge their secrets or their reasonings. They did not have to, and most people were content to not expect them to. It was disgusting. 

“How did you know to even send messages to these people?” He finally asked, going to his desk and sitting down in the high-backed chair. A hand-carved piece from Sylaise, a gift from centuries before. Lupa, after a moment, walked over to him from the door, standing in front of the desk, her back straight. 

“I was already in contact with them from before.” She said lightly. 

“How?” At that, she hesitated. Her features were troubled, and then her eyebrows slanted down into a glare. “If you are going to do such things without my consent, then your secrets are mine. If you are my Keeper, then you are mine. Tell me.” 

“…There…are some people that do not agree with the caste system. You have your Kings, your priests to the gods,” she began ticking them off of her fingers as she said them, “then your nobility, then the freemen that are either laborers or commoners, then servants, slaves, and then, finally… the undesireables.” 

“I do not need a lesson on the caste system. I helped to create it.” 

“Yes, well, that’s the thing. There are more people than you realize that disagree with it. We have lived this for centuries. The oppressed, the abused…they tire of it. They’ve been tired of it. There has been a movement, in secret, of people slowly gaining followers that believe in our cause, believe in a time where no one is oppressed merely because they were born into a different caste. We believe in a time with no caste, with no slavery…we believe in a time where all can be free.” 

“You are part of a rebellion.” The word tasted like honey, sweet and thick. Lupa nodded, smiling wryly. 

“Do you understand why we all come here to bow to you? You are our god. You are our savior, the beacon of hope that we cling to. You have ignored our prayers before, but you can’t ignore us when we’re right on your doorstep.” 

“I certainly could.” Fen’Harel interjected. 

“This isn’t even all of us. These are just the ones that could make it in such short notice.” 

“…How do you think that you are helping me?” He asked, shaking his head. The idea was laughable. 

“We are willing to serve.” 

“You have already done a poor job of that. Do you not think that Andruil has her people watching this temple? Do you not think that they watched each and every person that came here, marking their face and tattoos in their mind?”

“There are mages among us that put a glamour on those that entered. Only the first freeman that arrived would be seen as who he was.” Fen’Harel would never admit it, but he was impressed. As he stared across the desk at her, his rage completely gone, it was then that he noticed that her cheeks were not so hollow anymore, and in the space between her neck and the collar of the tunic, her collarbone did not jut out quite so roughly as it had before. He blinked, frowned. How long had she been here, alone? 

“You have gained weight.” He said. 

“…Was that supposed to be an insult?” She asked, confused. He shook his head, frowned. 

“If you are going to be Keeper,” He said, standing up, “then you should not look like a half-starved rat. You should look the part. If you are to be part of my plans, then you need to look healthy. You need to eat more. Continue to heal here while I take the next step.” 

“You have a plan?” Her eyes lit up, brilliant and eager. 

“Of a sorts. If you are going to do this-“ 

“Oh, I am.” He silenced her with a look, lips pursed. 

“Then you need do it well. I want a count of just how many people I am looking at. I want organization, structure. If this is where your base is going to be, then it should run efficiently, easily.” 

“I already read the tomes on the organization and ranks of your temples.” Lupa said, smiling. He let out an irritated grunt, though he was not surprised. It was no surprise that the thorn in his side would be an intelligent, informed one. But there was nothing to be done. He could either fight foes on either side, or he could allow one to join him, and continue his plans to engage the other with aid. 

“Then do so. I will attempt to mask your actions. Whether you think so or not, people will have taken notice. I will have much to explain.” 

“Your blessing is all that we ask.” She bowed to him, every inch of her body submissive. The sight made his nose itch, and he turned away, heading to the door.

“Indeed.” 

“Fen’Harel…what do you wish for me to tell the people?” She asked as he slowly pulled the door open. He frowned, puzzled over the words. He had not had to work with so many in so long. But people liked speeches, like dazzling displays of power and all-knowing revelation. 

“Tell them…that Fen'Harel has heard their prayers. Tell them that the rebellion can finally begin.”


	10. June

**Chapter 9:**

_It was when they massacred the innocents that he stopped trying._

_Blood ran in the streets, a crimson tide that never quite washed clean. He watched, unable to look away from the carnage. Even if he had been able to, he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He owed it to them, owed it to those that died with his name in their last breath, a god that could not aid them in the end. In the end, they belonged to Falon’Din, their souls his care. Fen’Harel could not say that they were better off with the dark god. And yet, they did not fare so well with him. Who was he to say where they would be better off?_

_“The population grew too high. It made the others nervous.” She stood beside him, regal and too beautiful to touch. But he did not want to touch her. He wanted to block out her words, a buffer between him and reality. He merely shrugged, considered the screams he heard below with an apathetic expression._

_“There is much that makes them nervous.”_

_“I am sorry, falon.” He didn’t look at her, eyes fastened to a man that was dragged from his home before his throat was slit, a child in the doorway, screaming. The image would be burned in their eyes forever._

_“A god is never sorry.” He replied._

June favored one temple above all others. It was a dark grey building that was built into the side of a volcano, the ash and the rubble useful tools for his crafting. To the side, a forest of ironbark grew, and lived well under his protection.

When Fen’Harel entered the hall, he wasn’t stopped by priests or guards. Everyone was attentive and dedicated to their work, heads bowed over tables as they crafted. June’s temple was a quite place, the only loud sound breaking through being the volcano that sometimes burbled and chatted threateningly. When he reached the back of the temple, he ascended steps that led to the mouth of the volcano, the smell in the air acrid and harsh.

That was where he found June, dressed as a blacksmith with large, thick arms. He was murmuring to the lava, coaxing it slowly into a mold that he compressed with a thick, heavy block of stone. As the steam hissed and struggled to escape the mold, he looked up from his work and considered Fen’Harel with his brilliantly clear blue eyes.

“I wondered when you would come and try to convert me.” He said, folding his arms over his barrel chest. Fen’Harel closed the door behind himself that led to the stairs, and watched June’s form ripple and shift to his true form, broad shouldered and narrow hipped.

“Convert? Interesting word choice, brother.”

“What is interesting is that you call me brother, although you know me to be of Sylaise and Andruil’s relation.”

“We are all brothers and sisters in the circle.”

“I woke this morning and heard my own magic as it chased a Hunter across this land.”

“Andruil could stop it, if she so wished.”

“She will not bleed when one set themselves on your path with their own foolish actions.”

“Then for her sake, I hope she wore sturdy boots.”

“My work was not made for taunting and goading those beneath us, Fen’Harel.”

“That was not my intent. My intent was to teach a lesson.” June sighed, turning back to his work and lifting the top of the mold, sliding his fingers over the shaped lava, the heat not bothering him.

“I understand nothing of the squabbles of the circle.”

“You just want to ply your trade.” He watched June begin the next process, the elf grunting in agreement.

“If you did not come to convert me, then why are you here?” He asked. Fen’Harel spied a chair and sat down on it, crossing one leg over the other to get comfortable.

“You are the one out of all of us that alone holds the ability to craft things far beyond what the others could fathom. I need…a token.”

“What sort of token?” He asked, pausing in his work once more to level Fen’Harel with a look.

“Something that will ease the prayers from my mind. They are…strong.”

“One of my noblemen left my temple to pray to you.” The words gave Fen’Harel pause, a warning tickling at the back of his neck.

“…You know of this?” June nodded and turned back to his work, seemingly indifferent.

“He gave me an offering of his finest works when he left. Ironbark.”

“A difficult task.”

“The most difficult task. But he gave me his work, to honorably go to you.” His tone turned thoughtful, and he scratched his ear idly. “I wonder what you have planned that he would deem important enough to flock to your call.”

“Twas no call of mine, brother. My temples have stood empty for some time.”

“And yet now one is full, and Andruil takes her rage to the Void.” Fen’Harel frowned, looked at the many tools that June crafted for his own amusement and pleasure. He had known that the god would be indifferent, happy to leave himself far enough away from trouble. And yet, just how indifferent could he be when his own followers abandoned him?

“I will leave Andruil well enough alone if you make this for me.”

“Well enough?”

“I will not goad her, will not engage her. Soon enough, those that come to my temples will grow bored with no direction from me. You know I have little interest in them.”

“A cat whose master loves him will try to leave. A cat whose master ignores him shall spend his days vying for his attention.”

“I suppose it is good that I shall never own a cat.” June let out a dry, quiet laugh.

“Are the prayers of the faithful so…disgusting to you?”

“I merely need them muffled enough so that I may continue my own work in peace.” June motioned to the blade he was fashioning, the entire piece rising in the air before becoming submerged in water. Steam hissed and rose up around them, temporarily taking Fen’Harel’s sight away. He blinked through the moisture, waiting. It could be very well that June would tell him no, and then inform Andruil of his visit. And yet, the god didn’t seem too invested in his actual relation to the huntress. Sometimes, it seemed as though he tried to pretend that he didn’t know her at all.

“I will make such a token. I will bring it to you when I finish.” Fen’Harel fought back the urge to smile.

“You are kind to wade through the troubles of friends.”

“Perhaps those that pray in your temples are not cats. Your neglect will turn them back to the rest of us.” Fen’Harel laughed, stood up and peered over June’s shoulder as the steam dissipated. Submerged in the water, what would soon become a blade of war glowed a brilliant, iridescent red.

“It is not so dangerous now. But soon, it will be a force to be reckoned with.” He said lightly, a compliment.

“The magic that I speak into it will prevent it from ever shattering.” June intoned, and Fen’Harel felt the stirring of magic in his veins at the sound.

“And who will receive such a gift?” June shrugged, uncertain.

“I will know when I see them. Until then, it will remain with my other crafts.”

“May whoever it goes to only need use it when necessary.” June looked up to Fen’Harel sharply, his eyes the color of undisturbed water troubled and harsh.

“Death is never necessary. Creatures that live forever should never have to see the end.”

—

Fen’Harel waited for the prayers to ease. As he busied himself with his work, as much of his time in the fade as out of it, he did his best to block out the sound of such fervor, such dedication. In the temple, the voices of so many were near unbearable at times. He had forgotten the sound of the faithful.

He had also forgotten that the rites of Fen’Harel dictated prayer twice a day. Once, together, in the morning and once, at dusk, when the trickster came out to play. At night, he had to clasp his hands about his head to block out the sound, insistent and strong in their convictions.

He could sense when more began to arrive. And praying the loudest, the most dedicated, was Lupa.

_We thank you, Fen'Harel, for you constant protection. We pray for you to keep our enemies at bay._

Keep them at bay, indeed. It was a precarious perch that he crept upon, and her involvement made the foundation of it all the more shaky. Wonderful.

His dance on the ledge continued as he attended the next meeting with the circle, his early arrival surprising everyone. He pretended to nap in his chair, “waking” only when he heard the last god enter and sit down.

“How kind of you to join us, Fen’Harel.” Mythal said, a small smile on her face. In the chair beside her, Elgar’nan eyed him, frowning.  

“I did not want to miss a chance to see all of my brothers and sisters, together in one place.”

“So that you can tell them all at the same time that you are taking their followers?” Andruil asked sweetly. He flicked his hair back carelessly, shrugged and coughed lightly. Nonchalance around Andruil was one of the faster ways to enrage her.  

“If we are to discuss followers being taken, then I believe we should first mention Falon’Din, not I.” Across from him, Falon’Din smiled, but only just. His slight, imperceptive nod told Fen’Harel that he had indeed spoken with Dirthamen, and that he had agreed to the terms of the trade. For now, he would side with Fen’Harel in the circle. And as a result, Andruil’s rage would grow. Delightful.

“Is it the fault of mine that so many take comfort with me?” Falon'Din asked lightly, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. Beside him, ever near and ever watchful, Dirthament tilted his head. He alone knew what Fen’Harel planned, although he would never know the truth until it was too late. There were ways to keep the God of Secrets ignorant, although the path one took to do so was dark and the steps sometimes disappeared beneath one when pressure was applied. But for the most part, he knew all. And as he looked across the way at Fen’Harel, his lips parted ever so slightly as his eyes flashed white.  

And then he grinned.

“I suppose that next time, we will choose our namesakes a little more carefully. I shall be God of Death and Void, and I shall have the largest group of followers.” Fen’Harel replied gravely.  

“You chose well, a trickster that delights in mockery and foolishness.” Andruil snapped.

“Did I choose such a name? Or was it bestowed upon me by simply being who I was?”  

“Enough, children.” Mythal interjected warningly. “If I knew that these meetings would always turn into squabbles, we would do them less.” Beside her, Elgar’nan growled in agreement, shifting in his seat.

“I do wish to know about your worshipers, Fen’Harel. The circle was to understand that you wanted no such thing. So you have said, so many years ago.” Centuries ago, in fact, although Fen’Harel often felt like he was the only one that kept track.  

“I do want no such thing, Elgar'nan. I have done nothing to entice these fools that creep into my temple.” He said the word _fool_  the way that they said _slave_. Derisive. Cruel. Uncaring.

“And yet, there they are.” Andruil ground out.

“My dearest Andruil, I am sorry that you have lost followers. May I suggest that you stop hunting them down for your own pleasure? It may entice them to stay.” The moment that the words fell from his mouth, his eyes sought out June’s. The God of Craft frowned and shook his head slightly in disapproval. Ah, yes. He had promised not to goad her, hadn’t he? Probably the hardest task he’d ever undertake.

“What I do with my people is none of your concern.”

“My concern is what you’re trying to prove.” Elgar'an’s voice rose an octave. “I will not have you moving back and forth as it suits you. Is this to attempt to say something?”

“I suppose the only thing that it would prove is that my temples have more food stores than most.” Fen'Harel retorted. He pretended to look aggrieved, sitting up straight in his chair as he looked at Elgar'nan. “Have I done something erroneous? Have I ordered them to lay war on anyone? Have I even gone to the temple that they camp in and spoken with them? Tell me what I have done wrong, and I shall certainly attempt to correct it.”

“No one thinks you have done wrong, Fen'Harel.” Mythal soothed. “They are merely nervous.”

“You all certainly become nervous about a great many things.” He snapped. “It is a wonder we do not all drop dead upon the floor of this circle with what our nerves do to us.” Silence fell in the hall, and Fen'Harel wondered just how many times he’d render these fools to silence before everything splintered and fell apart. 

“I find no fault with them choosing to follow him.” June suddenly spoke. “He has made it clear he has no interest in them. Soon enough, they will give in and return to us.”

“Yes, but how long before he decides that he likes having followers again, and he takes even more?” Andruil demanded. Her brother silenced her with a look.

“A vote, then. Does this please you?” June looked at Elgar'nan, and Elgar'nan nodded slowly. 

“A vote. Those in favor of Fen'Harel forcing those in his temple to leave?” Andruil’s hand rose sharply, Ghilan'nain following behind her. After a moment, Elgar'nan raised his own hand. When no one else did, Fen'Harel inched towards the edge of his seat, smirking.

“And those in favor of allowing me to continue with my own business, finding no fault in me for what has occurred?” He asked, tone far too sweet. June’s hand rose, followed by Dirthamen and Falon'Din both raising their hand. Mythal nodded and her hand rose. Sylaise, sweet as she was, avoided everyone’s eyes as her hand rose as well.

“The vote has decided.” Mythal said, patting Elgar'nan’s hand that was clenched into a fist on his arm rest. “We will move onto the next topic. I have noticed that…”

As Mythal steered them away from the subject of Lupa and her followers, Fen'Harel sat back and pretended to listen. He voted when appropriate, but for the most part he made no comment. For although they thought him smug in his victory with the vote, he was happier for much more important reasons. June could pretend all that he wanted that he would not take a side, but that was not so. June would take the path of least resistance. He would take the path that would allow him to work, unhindered by petty squabbles.

And as of this moment, he found that path with Fen'Harel. 

He made a mental note to add a notch on his desk to go alongside the others. One for Dirthamen, one for Falon'Din, one for Sylaise, and now one for June. Four down.


End file.
